


It's Too Late To Apologize

by kurdapya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:44:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurdapya/pseuds/kurdapya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything we do is limited, and Grantaire, too, is only human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Too Late To Apologize

**Author's Note:**

> George Blagden is to be credited for the title.  
> 'Tis my first fic here so be gentle.  
> I own nothing but the mistakes. English being my tertiary language, there’ll be a lot, I guess.

“You just don’t care, do you?” Enjolras was fuming at this point. He was drained already and all he wanted was to lie in bed and doze off. With finals coming and a large protest the day after tomorrow, you can’t really blame him if he’s seething. He was exhausted and if anger was the only way that could make the other shut up, then he’d rather do it.

It was a rather typical night to say the least. Enjolras being passionate about whatnots, Grantaire with his pessimistic comments, argument ensues: the makings of any regular night, really. To his credit, Enjolras knew his tone was nothing but gentle. Well, he’s never been gentle to start with, but prudent, yes. Yet when around Grantaire, all those prudence stored inside him tend to fall back. Grantaire’s infuriating for a lack of a better word. He crawls under your skin and messes with your head. He’s sarcastic and funny and leaves you on edge. He questions your beliefs and his eyes are just this shade of blue that you’d drown just by looking at it. Enjolras likes Grantaire, attracted actually. Being an advocate for a ‘new world’ could imprint fear of rejection so he never told him. And right now, prudence be damned.

He just wants this night to end, is that so hard to ask? So he made a plan in his head, not one of his very best, mind you. This level of backlash, throw him out, and done. He’d deal with the aftermath in the morning and would probably realize what he’d said was the total opposite of what he’d meant. Completely normal. He can already feel the start of a migraine clawing in his head.

If he weren’t too preoccupied with his exhaustion, he’d have noticed the dullness in Grantaire’s eyes, like he’s tired, too tired already. Maybe not as dead beat as he looked, but if he’d just look into those blue, blue eyes, he’d have noticed that he was hanging on a thread to an already dwindled hope, the enemy had cornered the lone soldier of a defenceless army. He’d have noticed it at the start of the meeting, or when he bumped into him this morning, or the beginning of the week. He’d have noticed that something was dying.

But he didn’t.

“Leave.” (he’s tired, you know, who could blame him?), “ It would be very useful to us,” his tone was cold and if he’d been saying this in front of a mirror, he’d have winced at the emotion being played by his eyes--or lack thereof. “You’re not our cross to bear.”

Now, he didn’t mean that.

Their friends gasped in unison. It only took Enjolras a second to weigh his words and realize how too far gone it was. No, no, that’s not what he meant. That was the total opposite of what he meant. But even he could tell he had crossed the line. He wanted to take it back but his throat was dry, too dry, all of a sudden and it seemed coherence have abandoned him. 

The silence that followed was inevitable, deafening, and the air felt too heavy. All eyes poring on the figure at the back. Even the buzzing inside Enjolras’ head stopped, waiting for the dark-haired man’s reaction and for the first time, Enjolras hoped for his constant caustic remark and the playful smirk on his lips.

The sagging of his shoulders was hard to miss, and the pained expression on his face. 

And right there Enjolras saw swords pierce the powerless, as sharp as his words had been, the severe swipe of the blade to the thin thread, too sharp for the already shrivelled hope. And right there Enjolras saw the cynic without his mask and the fact that it was all his doing made an invisible hand tighten his chest. There was no wildness in his eyes, only a thick haze.

The silence stretched and he saw Grantaire close his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to break. He wanted to console him, to wrap him tightly in his arms, but then again, no words formed and he was frozen on the spot, everyone was. Then Grantaire sighed, and slowly stood up to make his way to the door.

Four steps before Enjolras found his voice. “Grantaire, that was n—”

“It’s alright, Enjolras,” his voice sounded shattered and the way he said his name sounded foreign. The playful lilt was gone, or the adoration Enjolras hoped it to be. If possible, his chest tightened furthermore. 

“I’m s--”

“I’m alright...” He was now by the door, Enjolras could tell, and he could tell that Grantaire paused, “you know, if you’d have looked a bit more, you’d have seen that I cared. Goodbye,” and then he was gone. And Enjolras, being the sometimes-unobservant person that he was, overlooked the finality in his voice.

It was Combeferre who broke the silence, “For someone who claims to feel affection for Grantaire,” the eyes on the door turned to him with muddled expressions—confusion, anger, pity-- and he just didn’t have the heart to react to what his best friend said. It’s true anyway. “You have a really... different way of showing it.” Combeferre has always been the calm one, their voice of reason, their guide, and at that moment he’s disappointed and didn’t even bother hiding it.

A few people ducked their heads, and some looked away. It was Jehan who caught his eye. Whereas he didn’t know how his own looked, the poet’s were sad, a sadness that said he feels the same way, Enjolras, he feels the same way. 

And just like that he ran out of Cafe Musain. And just like that he followed Grantaire on the direction he saw him go. 

 

“Grantaire, wait!”

Finally, he stopped.

Enjolras had caught up to him. “Grantaire, I didn’t mean what I said. I t—”

“It’s fine, really,” his voice sounded hoarse. He’s been crying.

“No, I made a mistake,” he’s desperate now like desperation could fix this, “and I’m sor—”

“It’s alright.”

“I know it’s not,” he gingerly reached for his arm and slowly turned him around to face him, “I’m sorry, I really do.”

Grantaire’s face was wet with tears and there were more streaming down his face. It broke his heart. And it broke his heart even more to know that he caused it. He had never seen him like this and wished that he won’t again. He reached forward in an attempt to embrace the other man but-

“Enjolras, no,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“Grantaire—”

“No,” he looked at him, blue and blue meeting once again. “I don’t need your pity,” his voice was not stern, it was pleading.

Enjolras shook his head. “No, no, no,” he grabbed his hands and held it tightly. “Grantaire,” he started softly and earnestly, pouring all the feelings he could muster on the following words, “I know this is not the right time, but I lov—”

For a moment, Grantaire looked surprised. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished. He closed his eyes, “Love? What is love for you, Enjolras?” He looked at him imploringly but Grantaire continued before he could answer, “Do you know why I look at you like you’re the only one around? Do you know why I come to your protests?” He looked sad, the same sadness Jehan had showed earlier, and it was heartbreaking. “I argue with you everyday because it’s the only way I could get your attention. Do you know why I want to paint you every time? Do you know why I decided to quit drinking? Do you know why I’m always there when you always push me away? Do you know why I come back all the time this past five years? Because I love you, Enjolras. I love you, I do and I always will,” he whispered softly, more sincerely than Enjolras had been, “but I’m just human, too.”

Enjolras felt a hard blow hit him. Grantaire had loved him openly, unequivocally. He, on the other hand, had always dismissed the thought of love, pushed it away at the back of his mind. Grantaire was right, he know nothing of love. Love was there right under his nose, pushed to him even. Love was there everyday. Love was patiently waiting for him. Love has always cared. And he sees that now and he wants it to the greatest extent. He wants to be wrapped up in love’s tight embrace and to give it away just as strongly. He wants to constantly wake up feeling love’s presence enveloping him. Grantaire is love. And he loves Grantaire.

But even the most prepared revolutionaries lose hope. It’s too late and he knows it. He’s too late. He can see in Grantaire’s eyes that he had been hurting for so long. The amount of tears they’re both crying will never cover the pain he caused him. 

“Do you ever just get tired?” Grantaire was openly sobbing now, his body shaking with him, “because I really am.”

And what happened next was beyond Enjolras. Grantaire’s lips were on his. Grantaire kissed him. It lasted for a moment but all the emotions poured into it made it feel longer. But it was a kind of kiss one has to give in the ending. “Goodbye, Enjolras,” he whispered, wiping away a tear on Enjolras’ face. And the finality of both seared inside Enjolras as he watched Grantaire’s retreating form.

He erased the idea when he went home. He thought it was a misconception when he went to sleep. He was hoping it isn’t what he thinks it is when he drank his first coffee. But when Courfeyrac burst into his apartment the next morning, he knew. And it burned him, a cold flame, before the words escaped from Courfeyrac.

“His flat is empty.”

And he didn’t need to ask what it meant because he knows.

“He’s gone, Enjolras.”

He hated that word. He hated the name that once was so full of admiration, so full of... love. And he’ll never hear it being said that way again. Now it sounds so meaningless, bare, empty, like what he feels now.

His fingers lingered tentatively on his lips, the ghost of that one kiss haunting him. That kiss could’ve been the start of many others, he told himself. Except it wasn’t. It was the end of something that didn’t even happen. It was right there and he could’ve just leaned in, except he didn’t. 

And he never told him how much he feels, how much he loves him.


End file.
